Fractured
by JillianCasey
Summary: Fracture: the separation of an object or material into two or more pieces under the action of stress. Post-ep for 47 Seconds.


_I really wasn't going to do this. Honestly. But then Carto was just so insistent (even after I wanted to steal one of her titles) and I was just so traumatized by all the angst of 47 seconds and well. Here we are. All complaints can be directed to Cartographical. This is all her fault. _

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><p>Kate shows up at his door around seven o'clock.<p>

Judging by the way he's been acting, and in particular the lithe blonde he threw in her face at the crime scene _and_ the precinct, she's taking quite the risk. There's a chance they're on the other side of the door right now, doing things she doesn't even want to think about. Her brain is a traitor, though, and so she thought about it the entire elevator ride up to his loft. Legs that aren't hers wrapped around his waist and strands of blonde hair (why does she always get replaced by _blondes_, anyway?) in between his fingers.

She doesn't knock on the door. She bangs, just to prove a point, just in case they really are on the other side. Maybe it'll startle them and he'll drop her.

Oh God, she's being petty now, isn't she?

When no one answers right away, she bangs again. Just in case he didn't hear because he's in the throes of passion in his bedroom.

And now she's being melodramatic.

Kate pinches the bridge of her nose. This isn't her. What's wrong with her? What's wrong with _him_? Lanie advice be damned, it doesn't make sense. He wouldn't just get tired of waiting, would he? Not when he's been so adamant, so faithful, so exactly what she needs. Why has he suddenly reverted back to the Castle she knew when they first met, and not the Castle she knows now, the Castle she fell in—

The door swings open. She looks up, caught mid-thought, and finds him staring with an open mouth.

"Beckett," he says dumbly.

For a second, she sees the emotion chase over his face. Pleasure, replaced quickly by a grimace, pain of some sort, and she doesn't understand, doesn't like it, so she snaps. "We need to talk."

Panic floods his face, and then his expression is serenely blank again. "Why? You break the case?"

"Cut the crap," she says to him. "What's wrong with you?"

His eyes are too bright, his smile too forced. She doesn't buy it for a second. "Nothing," he answers. She doesn't buy that either. He looks at his watch. "Just getting ready for a date, actually."

It stings more than she likes, and the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. "Three in a row, huh? Must be a hell of a woman."

He narrows his eyes at her. "Yeah, well, what can I say? She likes to talk."

"Yes, I'm sure you two do all kinds of _talking_."

"Even if we didn't, some silences are better than others."

"Is this a writer thing?" she spits at him, her hands finding her hips. "You're new obsession?"

"What?"

"_Silences_," she says, emphasizing the word so that it drips with every ounce of the irritation she feels. "It's all you've been talking about since the bomb."

He laughs, but it's not the laugh she knows. It's bitter and edgy and so unlike him that it pulls her out of her annoyance just long enough to feel hurt again. "I don't know, Beckett," he says, saying her name like it's a curse word. "Maybe the idea of having 47 seconds left got to me. Maybe I decided to stop living in silence and start playing with noise."

She swallows. She isn't a fool. She knows what he's implying. But despite the sharpness of the implication in the air, despite the tightness in her chest, she isn't ready to walk away. She needs to know why.

"So that's it," she says. "You're out. Just like that."

He laughs again, and her reaction is so visceral that she's certain he sees her wince. "Don't make this more than it is," he tells her. His voice is cold. "Don't pretend I'm more. I deserve better than that."

"Better?" she repeats, her voice cracking. "Better than what? Than _me_?"

"You don't get to do that!" he snarls at her, stepping out of the apartment and into her space. He shoves his index finger into her face and she wants to back away, wants to shove him out of her space, but she's rooted to the ground, stuck on the fact that he just said what she's been afraid of all along. They both know he deserves better.

"You don't get to make me feel bad," he continues. "You did this, Kate. Not me."

"Did _what_?"

"Ruined us. This. Whatever the hell I thought it was."

"Castle—"

"No, I don't want to hear it! I don't need some story about how you can't lose someone else in your life, and you're sorry you don't feel the same—"

"_Rick_—"

"Just save it for the next guy you string along, okay? I've had enough of your bread crumbs to last me—"

"Shut up!" she shouts at him, pushing against his chest because he's been towering over her, yelling at her, and she can't take it anymore. She needs him to _listen_, goddamn it.

He stumbles backward, catches himself on doorframe. He stares at her, stunned. She can't quite believe she did it either. She recovers quickly, though, before he can slam the door in her face.

"I didn't come here to fight with you."

He clenches his jaw. "Then why are you here?"

"Because I need answers. I need to know what happened to my partner."

"Your partner is gone," he snaps. "And you can stop acting like you're so goddamn torn up about it. I'm not buying what you're selling tonight."

"What is wrong with you?" she demands. She wants it to sound accusatory but it comes out on the high crest of a sob, so instead it sounds like she's about to burst into tears. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm herself. This is _ridiculous_. She is _not_ going to cry.

Concern flickers in his eyes, but he says nothing.

She clears her throat. "Tell me what I did." He opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off.

"And don't say nothing. I am so fucking sick of hearing you say _nothing_."

He lifts his chin at her defiantly. "I heard you. In the interrogation room with Bobby. I heard what you said."

She has to think about it for a second, recall the memories of Bobby and what the hell she'd been saying to him. Who was he working for…trauma….he can't lie because she knows, she was shot in the chest and she…

Oh, God.

She closes her eyes, pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and hangs her head. The words kaleidoscope through her brain. _I remember every second of it. I love you, Kate. I don't remember. Are you sure? I don't remember._

_I don't remember._

"Castle," she breathes. She looks up at him, and the expression on his face drives the knife even deeper in her chest. She hurt him. Hurt him so badly. All this time she's been trying to protect him from the worst parts of herself, trying to be better for him, and it's backfired. She'll never forgive herself if she loses him because she tried to do this the right way.

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

He laughs humorlessly. "Yeah. I'm sure you are. Sorry that your puppy knows you don't feel the same, so now you don't have anyone to pull around on a leash."

That brings her up short. She stares at him. A moment passes that's too long. "What?" she finally says stupidly.

He shakes his head. "You're a lot of things, Kate. Stubborn. Cold. I never pegged you as a liar. Certainly not as the manipulative type."

It's her turn to shake her head. "What? No. Rick, I don't…what are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb, Kate. It doesn't suit you."

"Rick," she says insistently. She steps forward, reaches her hand out to touch him, and he recoils. That hurts like hell, because he's never, _never_ rejected physical contact.

She drops her hands to her sides, bites her lip. Silence hangs over them for a second. Finally, she looks up at him. "You're wrong."

He doesn't say anything. She chews her lip, trying to find the words. She hates this. She isn't good at it. It's why it's taken her so long to get here. It's why she might lose him.

"The reason I didn't tell you isn't because I don't feel the same. It's because I do."

He stares at her. "That doesn't even make sense."

She exhales sharply. "I _know_. I'm trying, okay? I'm not good at this, I…" She shakes her head.

"The last time I tried to do this, you took off with your ex-wife."

He knits his eyebrows at her, utterly confused. "Gina? What does she have to do with this?"

"Nothing. I…never mind."

She runs a hand through her hair impatiently. He stands motionlessly, staring at her. Waiting. Always waiting. A week ago she would've loved him for it, would've felt secure in how he felt about her, but now it's horrifying. How could she wait this long? When did she become such a coward?

"Okay," she says. "I'm going to just…say it."

He stares at her blankly.

"Right. Um. I'm in therapy."

He lifts his eyebrows. "Yeah. For your PTSD."

"No," she corrects. "I mean, yes. But PTSD…Castle, it isn't just about being shot in the chest. Does that make sense? It's so much more than that. It's my mother's case, it's being a cop, it's this whole bundle of horror that just sits, right here," she pats her chest, right above her scar, "every second of every day."

She pauses, tries to catch her breath. Her heart is racing. Her hands are shaking. God, she hates this. But she loves him. She'll do this for him. He's probably the only one she would do this for.

"That weight…it's heavy. And when something heavy sits on something that can't hold the weight, the something starts to fracture. It's just hairline at first, but then the fractures get bigger, and bigger, until they consume you."

He's hanging on her every word, she can tell, but it's not comforting. What if what she's saying isn't enough? What if she's not enough?

"That weight has been breaking me since the day my mom died," she pushes on. "And being broken…I never cared much. I just thought it was who I was. I didn't need to be better. Not until you."

He shakes his head. "Kate—"

"Just let me say it, okay?" He nods. She takes a deep breath. "I wanted to be more. And last summer….I couldn't do it."

"And now you can?" he asks.

She exhales slowly. There's nothing else to say. Nothing that could convince him that she didn't lie because she doesn't care, nothing that could even remotely explain that if she loses him, it's going to eat her alive.

"I love you," she blurts out. "I'm still broken. But I love you."

She waits, barely breathing, trying to read his expression. She can't. That's a bad sign, right? It has to be a bad sign.

"Kate," he says softly. Any trace of his former anger is gone. "I don't know if I believe you. I think you're afraid of losing someone else—"

"You're right," she cuts him off. "I'm fucking terrified. But weren't you? I had a bullet in my chest, I was dying in your arms. Did _you_ mean it?"

"Of course I meant it."

"Then why can't I? Just because you're not bleeding, or drowning, or fending off a tiger…it doesn't make it any less real. It's nine months too late, and I lied, and you've got a date, but I love you. Okay? I love you."

She isn't sure what she expects him to do with that. Maybe tell her that she's too late, or tell her that he needs to go because of his date, or maybe shut the door in her face after saying that he never wants to see her again because she's such a coward.

She certainly doesn't expect him to grab her face in his hands and kiss her. But that's exactly what he does.

She clings to him, stunned at first and then just determined to show him how she feels instead of telling him, because words are his thing not hers and she's had enough of them to last her for quite a while, and she would really just prefer if for the next few days the only words she had to say were the last three she finally said.

But it's Castle, and he loves her, and now he knows she loves him too, so of course there have to be more words.

"Stay," he breathes against her lips.

She pulls away to look him in the eye. "What?"

"Stay," he says again. He's smiling and it's finally the smile she knows. He brushes her hair away from her face. "Stay with me. Tonight."

"Don't you have a date?"

He wraps his arms around her, holds her close. She digs her fingers into his back, wanting to make sure that he's actually here, that he's actually holding her, that they're actually doing this.

"No," he murmurs. "Stay."

The want laced in his voice sends a shiver drilling down her spine. Suddenly, she's tired of words again.

She doesn't need them anyway.

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><p><em>Not to burst anyone's bubble, but I'm thinking that if the writers did something like this, after a week or so of our favorite duo being blissfully happy, it would be about time for Beckett to find out Castle's secret. Then they can spend the whole summer apart. Again. I just burst the bubble, didn't I?<em>


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